


the call

by erebones



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fifth Blight, Gen, Grey Wardens, M/M, Warden Carver Hawke, carver is kieran's father if ya know what i mean, there's like five seconds of sex and it's purely business
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9582503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Warden Cousland happens upon a half-dead young man in the Korcari Wilds and saves his life, recruiting him to her cause. That man is Carver Hawke.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://norroendyrd.tumblr.com/post/156174067678/queen-tamara-cousland-theirin-picking-up-strays) post by norreondyrd. I used my own Warden because I was afraid of messing up Tamara's characterization. And yeah, there's gonna be a part two :)

Carver wakes up cold. At least, he thinks he’s cold. His shoulders and neck are a mass of pain, the only warmth he can feel. Everything else is just… not there.

 _Bethany_ , he realizes suddenly, and that thought is almost enough to make his muscles seize with terror. If he had any muscle to spare. _Garrett. Mother. Where are they?_

“Hey, hey. Easy. Sarai, he’s awake.”

Someone strikes a match, and he realizes he’s in a tent. The lit candle illuminates two faces, both bone-weary and haggard, wearing the padded gambesons of warriors. The man who spoke is young, maybe younger than Carver, with days-old scruff and a haunted expression. The other, a woman, is darker-skinned and slighter, with a small mouth set into a hard, grim line belonging to someone years her senior. She is the one who bears the candle, and the one who kneels beside him now, one hand hovering out uncertainly.

“Fetch Morrigan. Quickly, Alistair.”

It hurts to breathe. Between one blink and the next, Alistair has gone, and the woman called Sarai is watching him closely. He struggles to open his mouth, and tastes blood.

“Bethy…”

“Please don’t try to speak. Or move. Morrigan did what she was able, but we don’t know how extensive the damage is yet.” Her voice is calm and methodical in spite of the worry engraved on her face, and her accent is strange—Fereldan, but with an undercurrent of something else, as if she learned another language alongside Trade at her mother’s knee.

The tent flap is pushed aside and Alistair returns with another woman in tow—Morrigan, he recalls weakly. His brain feels like water, the details of the past few minutes growing dimmer as they flow away from him. He catches snatches of their conversation, the two warriors’ voices mingling with the sharp, Chasind accent of Morrigan. A mage? An apostate? Are they templars? _Bethy_ , he thinks again, horrified, but it’s numbed by the wash of clumsy healing magic that suffuses him, locking his joints and stinging the back of his throat.

“I’m not a healer,” says the Chasind, sharp-edged with fear and fury. “We should have taken him to my mother.”

“There wasn’t time. He would have died.” The first woman, Sarai, leans over him again and touches his cheek. “We’ll reach the Circle in a few days. We just need to keep him alive until then.”

 _But why?_ Carver thinks, as the haze of healing and pain seize him in their grip and drag him into darkness. _Everyone else is gone. Let me go, too._

///

He doesn’t remember much of the next few days. They keep him sedated with herbs and magic, and he doesn’t complain—underneath the cloud of sleep, he knows he’s badly hurt. He dreams in fits and snatches of the flight from Lothering, the Templar and his wife, the ogre. He can still feel its grip on him like a ghost, sometimes, in the few lucid moments when he’s not shaking with fever. It broke him, left him for dead. He doesn’t know why they’re bothering.

Then, quite suddenly, he wakes up. He’s lying on a pallet on the floor of an arched stone chamber, with lancet windows that filter in weak, watery daylight; the dim corners of the room are illuminated with smoky tallow-fat torches that flicker and drip in their sconces. There are others around him, too, lying in various states of illness and injury. A makeshift sickbay.

The man beside him moans and shivers, head tossing against the flat pillow. When Carver looks closer, he sees the sunburst brand beneath his fringe and his belly turns over. _A Circle. Where is Bethy?_

“Ho, there. Easy. You shouldn’t be sitting up.”

Carver looks down at himself, already pressed up on his palms without realizing it. It's more range of movement than he's had in days. He lowers himself reluctantly to his elbows as a woman about his mother’s age kneels beside him, her burned and bloodied mage’s robes pooling around her. She looks largely unscathed in spite of her attire, her silver hair pulled back neatly from her calm face; when she takes his wrist to feel his pulse, her hands are soft and smell faintly of lavender.

“Who’re you?”

“I am Wynne. A healer. And you, young man, are very lucky to be alive.” She clucks her tongue in satisfaction at whatever she finds and sits back. “Do you know where you are?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Such good manners! What an unexpected boon in these trying times.” She smiles serenely, eyes crinkling, and Carver feels himself relax minutely. “You are in the Circle at Kinloch Hold. I’m afraid our infirmary isn’t quite up to snuff, yet, but we are doing the best we can with what we have. It’s thanks to your friends we have a Circle left at all.”

“My friends? I don’t understand.” He _does_ sit up fully, then, and she makes no move to stop him. “I’m—do you know where my sister is? Bethany? She—” He chokes silent when he sees the pair of Templars standing on the other side of the room, heads bent together in conversation. The back of his neck prickles.

Wynne is looking a lot less serene, now, eyebrows folded together with concern. “There was no mention of a sister. The Grey Wardens brought you to us. They found you near the Wilds, they said, fleeing the darkspawn I have no doubt. Perhaps your sister has escaped?”

Carver touches his own jaw, feeling for bruises, but there’s nothing. Not even a twinge of pain when he turns his head side to side. “I… she must have. There was an ogre, but… I charged it. Told them to run.” Had he really done that? Had he killed the ogre? Or had it slaughtered them all? Surely not. Surely Sarai—a Warden—would have said something to the healers here? “Where are the Wardens? I need to—I need to speak to them. Please.”

“They are in conference with the Knight-Commander at present, I fear,” Wynne says gently, still eyeing him closely. “Negotiating battle strategies, I believe. I will be sure to tell you when they are available.”

 _No. I need to see them now._ But he bites back on the urge to demand answers, instead folding his hands in his lap politely and letting his expression smooth. “All right. Is there any chance I could have my armor back? And my sword?” In spite of everything, it has not escaped his notice that he’s only wearing his trousers and some bandages that do little to preserve his modesty, or his warmth. Though if he’s honest, it’s the sword he misses most of all—he feels naked without its reassuring weight at his back.

“I’m afraid your things aren’t very clean,” Wynne says hesitantly. “And I will have to speak to the Knight-Commander about your sword…”

“What do you mean? I’m not—I’m not a ruffian,” he says, indignant. “I’m with the Grey Warden!”

Wynne looks skeptical, but before she can make a reply, the infirmary door swings open and the Wardens themselves enter, bringing their Chasind friend and a massive mabari war dog behind them. Carver can barely remember their names, but relief swells up inside him nonetheless, and laughter comes easily when the mabari romps over to him and starts licking his face.

“Genevieve, down,” their leader says firmly, and the dog obeys with an indignant huff, stubby tail still wriggling and she returns to her mistress. The Warden looks very different from the few fevered glimpses Carver had gotten of her before: still petite, but wearing a full set of plate armor like it’s nothing, a sword and shield hanging on her back the way Chasind women wear their newborns in slings off their shoulders. She gives Wynne a short bow. “Forgive me, ma’am, but if we could have a moment alone with our compatriot?”

“Of course,” Wynne says, gracious as ever, though her sharp eyes seems to catch everything the Warden isn’t saying. She gets up, dusts her robes off fruitlessly, and drifts away to attend to someone else.

Carver tries not to shrink under the gaze of these strangers who saved his life, but it’s hard to do when he’s hardly wearing anything at all. The Warden’s mouth twitches and she makes a gesture at the dog. “Gin, find his pack, please. We’re not staying.”

“You mean I’m coming with you?”

“That would be best, I think. I don’t wish to conscript you if it’s indeed your dearest wish to stay in a burned-out Circle doing Maker knows what, but I have little choice. I need as many swords as I can gather, and you look as though you know how to use one.”

“I do. And I’ll come, if you can tell me where my sister is.”

For the first time, her determined expression falters. “When we found you, you were alone. Well, there was a great hulking ogre corpse not far away, but no humans.”

The Chasind witch cleared her throat, but didn’t speak until the Warden signaled her to do so. Interesting. “It looked to my eyes as though you had been laid to rest in a hurry—the way loved ones might do to a body they had no time to bury. If that is a comfort to you, I might suggest that your sister did what she was able to before continuing to flee.”

Carver swallows. They must have thought he was dead. He _was_ dead, very nearly. And Garrett, ever practical, would know they had no time to bury or burn him. He would shepherd them on, keep them safe. He has to believe that.

“I’m Carver Hawke,” he says at last. “And you have my sword, Warden, as it seems I owe you my life.”

“Sarai Cousland,” she replies, holding out her hand. When she tugs him to his feet, she shows no strain, although he stands head and shoulders over her in his bare feet. “And Alistair. We’re the last of the Grey Wardens, and we’re trying to stop the Blight.”

With a curious mix of helplessness and resignation, Carver nods. “Count me in.”

///

They make camp along Lake Calenhad about a day's trek from Redcliffe. They bring Wynne with them, and there are more awaiting their arrival: an Antivan blademaster with a wicked smile, and, to his shock, someone he recognizes.

“Sister Leliana?” he asks, hardly daring to believe his eyes. He feels a flash of guilt—Bethany had always been the devout one between them, dragging him to services and always stopping by the Chantry to speak to Sister Leliana whenever they ventured into town. Carver found the rote and religious stuff boring, and made no secret of it. But Leliana bears no grudges—she holds him tightly in a hug, eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and declares how happy she is to see him whole.

“When we found you I was amazed you still had breath,” she says, dragging him to sit by the fire to catch up. The others move about the camp, taking care of their own chores, but Carver is happy just to sit and listen to her familiar, lilting chatter, more grateful for it now than he’s ever been in his life. She's wearing leather armor and a pair of knives instead of her Chantry robes, but the voice is definitely hers. 

“I don’t understand it, either. I don’t think I was supposed to make it this far.”

“The Maker has other plans for you,” she says serenely, patting his hand, and for the first time his first instinct isn’t to disagree.

“We’ll see,” he says diplomatically, and a pang of hope warms his breast at her laughter.

“Hawke,” Cousland calls, directing his attention toward the supply wagon. “Come here, I’ve got some red steel that might fit.”

///

At first he fights because he owes her his life. Then he fights because it’s _her_. The Grey Warden. She’s young and inexperienced, but she makes up for it with determination and sheer grit and willpower. She commands respect, earns it, _keeps_ it, all the way through til the end.

The night before the final battle, she calls him to her rooms. Alistair is there, too, looking grave and older than he ever has, and together they explain what tomorrow will bring. The Archdemon. The sacrifice. All of it. When they’re done, Carver clenches his fists and asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to be completely informed before you make any rash decisions.” A flicker of a smile touches her cheek, and it’s the smile of a dying woman. “If you wish it, I have a Joining cup prepared. You’ve made mention before of becoming a _proper_ Grey Warden. You’ve traveled with us for a year, you know the stakes. You know what it’s like. I know it’s unusual for someone to know all these secrets going in, but I’m sick of them. If I had known even half of what I know now…” She shook her head brusquely, brown strands swirling around her face. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. The only choice you have to make is whether to drink… or not.”

“What happens if I don’t?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

“We hope you’ll fight with us tomorrow,” Alistair says. His brow is furrowed and there’s a glint of silver at his temples that wasn’t there a year ago. “Of course we understand if you choose not to. Or any of our companions.”

“Of course I’ll fight,” Carver says hotly, offended that any alternative would even be considered. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it, for me to be as… prepared as I can be? If I’m… if I’m a Warden, I can fight harder. Faster. Longer. And at the end, if either of you fall—Maker forbid—then you have a safety net.”

“The choice is yours to make,” Sarai says. Her eyes fall to the side, and he sees it now, sitting on the table on the other side of the room. A silver chalice, filled with blood. Archdemon blood. His belly turns over, but he knows what he has to do. He’s already made his choice.

He walks over to the table and picks up the cup with both hands. It weighs far less than he expected it to. When he peers into the the bowl, the liquid inside does not reflect the light, so dark it looks more black than red. He holds his breath and drinks.

///

He awakes less than an hour later, and he can already feel the difference. He’s dizzy, a little queasy, with the taste of blood in his mouth and a ringing in his ears he can’t quite shake. Alistair and Sarai stayed up with him, and the bald relief on their faces reassures him. Whatever happens tomorrow, it was the right choice.

He’s on his way back to his rooms when Morrigan appears and stops him. A gentle touch on his arm, a deadly serious gleam in her eye. An offer. A… _proposition_. “I’m not afraid to make the sacrifice,” he argues.

“No one is suggesting that you aren’t. The point is, you don’t _have_ to.”

Alistair had refused. It makes sense—the two had never gotten along well, even now that they're past the petty name-calling and arguments—but he’s surprised that Sarai didn’t press him.

“She said it was his choice to make,” Morrigan said with a shrug. “Apparently her womanly side would not be swayed, and she would rather see him fall in battle than preserve both their lives so they might live them together. I don’t pretend to understand it. But you and I have always been... logical, haven’t we?”

Carver isn’t afraid to die. Not if it means saving Ferelden from a Blight, and soon the world. But neither does he _long_ for death, not anymore. There’s a letter on his bedside table from Bethy, received a few days ago. Garrett is quite wealthy, now, and their mother has reclaimed her rightful place as Lady Amell. They want Carver to visit. The guilt his sister feels at leaving him behind is so strong he could almost feel it through the parchment when he first read it. Can he deny her the chance to see him again? Can he deny himself?

“Come,” he says quietly, a little bit defeated but a little bit hopeful. “My room. Even if this is going to be the most awkward, uncomfortable sex of our lives, I’m still going to be a gentleman about it.”

“You thrill me,” Morrigan says dryly, and Carver can’t help it—he laughs.

It’s bizarre, and a little bit horrible, but it’s all right. Morrigan has brought a potion to help things along, and Carver fucks her on hands and knees with the candles all blown out, only the dying fire illuminating their tryst. He’s no Zevran, but he’s not a total slob in bed—he makes sure she finds her pleasure before he spends, and afterward he pours them each a glass of wine while she lays with a pillow under her backside to speed the process.

“To victory,” he says, mouth twisted in a wry smile, and she rolls her eyes as they click glasses.

“To victory.”

///

He receives a letter when Kieran is born. He’s facing off against Oghren in the training yard at Vigil’s Keep when a Junior Warden comes over with the letter, just delivered to the Keep by courier with all the other parcels and packages that come to them via Amaranthine each week. Oghren jibes at him for abandoning their practice mid-bout, but Carver waves him off, wiping the sweat from his brow and returning his practice sword to its rack.

It’s unsigned, but he recognizes the handwriting. Sharp, lancet strokes against the leather envelope: _Warden Carver Hawke, Vigil’s Keep, Amaranthine._ He frees the parchment cased within and reads without hardly breathing.

A healthy baby boy, born in the dark bosom of a midsummer night. Fair skin, dark hair. The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. And a freckle, just there, at the corner of his eye. Carver blinks and touches the same spot on his own eyelid, chest tight with something he can’t describe.

 _I cannot tell you where I am,_ she writes, with something like regret in her last few words. _But I will make sure he knows that his father was a good man._


End file.
